


Rhythm

by toushindai (WallofIllusion)



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Flirting, and general physicality, with hints of angst sprinkled in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 04:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13159098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallofIllusion/pseuds/toushindai
Summary: He's watched her rehearse so many times, it's only fair that she gets to watch him smack a punching bag around once or twice.





	Rhythm

**Author's Note:**

> so I hear it's BOXING DAY, I don't actually know what one does on Boxing Day? Apparently what I do on Boxing Day is "finally write this scene I've had in mind for a while." The headcanon behind this is that after the altercation at her concert, Red stays with Boxer for a few days until she's feeling steady on her feet again. This happens during that time period.
> 
> TuringTheMissionary has translated this into Chinese *_* You can read it [here](http://rumblizzard.lofter.com/post/1e3a1218_120fc161)!

“Can I watch?” she asks.

He pauses in his steady assault on the punching bag set up in his basement and turns to look at her. “There’s not really much to watch,” he says with a skeptical raise of his eyebrow, “but be my guest.”

“Thanks.”

She’d watch him do just about anything, frankly, and the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt right now is just a bonus. It’s endearing that he doesn’t realize it. He takes advantage of the interruption she provided to wipe his face and the back of his neck on a towel; then he turns back to the sandbag and resumes his practice, too focused to be self-conscious.

Red tucks herself into a corner of the couch, legs pulled up almost to her chest and arms wrapped around them. There’s more to the experience of watching than he might think: the smell of his sweat in the air mixed with the musty smell of the sandbag itself, the heavy shuddering swings of the bag and the rippling of his muscles, the way each blow seems perfectly targeted and calculated by a formula that Red can’t even begin to guess. His breaths are heavy but measured, their rhythm matched to his blows and the faint creak of the chain that secures the bag to the ceiling. Her own breaths are quieter, calmer. Calmer still as she watches, letting herself exist in this moment.

When he finishes, she uncurls herself and hands over his water bottle. “Is it as cathartic as it looks?” she asks.

“It’s pretty great,” he admits. He takes a solid swig of water and then tosses a little over his head as well, using his wrapped fingers to comb the droplets through his sweat-damp hair. “Why? You want to give it a try?”

She turns her gaze away from him (with some effort) and towards the punching bag, still swinging slightly in place. She thinks about her pale hands, about the polish that’s still on her nails from the concert because of course he doesn’t have polish remover. Her heart stutters.

“Not right now,” she says.

If she started punching, she’s not sure she’d be able to stop.

He shrugs. If he’s noticed her hesitation, at least he doesn’t draw attention to it. “All right. Standing offer, if you ever change your mind. I bet you could throw a solid punch with a little training.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah. You’re a force to be reckoned with, Red.”

His eyes show that he’s sincere, and Red flushes with the joy of being taken seriously. It almost makes her want to give the punching bag a try right now after all. Almost. Instead, she asks, “So how did you get into all of this, anyway?”

He snorts dismissively. “Wandered into it,” he answers. “Same as everything else.”

But she wants more details than that. She tilts her head and gives him an indulgent smile. “Tell me the story, babe.”

“It’s not really a story?”

“Tell me anyway.”

She holds his gaze until she wins against his instinct that no one cares about the life he leads; she watches him swallow down skepticism and the protective sarcasm that he so often deploys. He’s strangely bashful underneath it, and not nearly as sure of his footing as he was moments ago when he was facing down the punching bag. “Well…” he begins with an uncertain smile. But when he takes a deep breath to begin his story, his nose wrinkles and he gives a sudden groan of disgust. “Ugh. How about we go upstairs where it smells better and I shower first?”

She laughs. “If you insist.”

“Not really sure why that’s something I should have to insist on, because it’s gross down here, but yes, I insist.”

“Fine, fine.”

She leads the way up the stairs—but only so that she can turn, halfway up, and surprise him with a kiss that she doesn’t have to pull him down into.

“Red,” he protests when he pulls back, “I’m disgusting right now.”

“You’re not,” she assures him. “Do you have any idea how much self-control it was taking not to pull you onto that couch with me?”

He gapes at her, not really sure how to respond to that. “…Well, okay,” he says at last, and Red’s pretty sure that he’s blushing.

She resumes her ascent. “If you let me join you in the shower,” she proposes over her shoulder, “you could tell me the story there.”

“Uh-huh. You sure that’s what you have in mind?”

She tries to swallow her smile and she can’t. “Well, maybe,” she says, and he follows her up the stairs.


End file.
